His Little Doll
by jokestaplease
Summary: Just a short drabble; nothing too serious. Mostly about how I view Harleen - what she goes through. Yeah.


**Yes, yes, I know, I know. A drabble, not the second chapter of Bloom that actually got more views/likes than I _thought _it would get; it was a real pleasant surprise. So anyways, yeah, this is just a drabble that's been saved for a while now and I just feel... I should post it, since I can't think of anything else to do with it.**

**Again, constructive criticism is my lifeline. I _love _it. Or even just criticism; can't guarantee that I _won't _be offended by it, but oh well.**

**I also forgot to put a disclaimer on that other story - I'll probably add it in after I upload this, but yeah. So yeah, this is my drabble. Have fun?**

**Disclaimer:****I don't own anything from the Batman franchise or anything associated with this story that is _not mine_. The characters and back stories belong to DC, _not me_.**

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_Why_ did she sign up for psychology again?

To make life seem more _fun_?

No, no, she couldn't be so _naive_ that she decided _that_ would be her reason. Something _deeper_; she knew. _She knew_. Something that she witnessed her _whole_ life, but _never understood_.

_**Deception**_.

What her father did for a living. Convincing dying, old, rich women to give him their money. A genius idea, but immoral. Extremely immoral. _Un_-_com_-_pre_-_hen_-_sive_ for Harleen.

That was what she signed _up_ for; to look for _answers_, **real** answers.

The _main_ question on her mind?

_Why_ does her father do what he _does_?

Years of studying - not _really_, she fluked; she tricked her way into being a _good_ psychiatrist. Such a _good_ daddies' _little girl_ - wasted on what? Knowing that there will _never_ be an answer to her _question_?

What a waste of _time_. And _money_. More the _time_ part; _time_ is more _important_. Especially with a **dying, old woman**.

Maybe she _was_ naive, thinking she could get an answer for _everything_. It's the only logical explanation she could give - for her father being the only person who knew her for the vulnerable wreck she was.

She really was _daddies' little girl_; saying she doesn't understand deception and yet, living a lie. A lie _she_ created.

Her mother wouldn't be so proud. She never _was_.

She wished she never signed up for psychology. Her father is a terrible reason for everything - anything. She knew what he'd do, if he found out her reason - unless he knew it already - he'd laugh at her. Call her a _hypocrite_; call her _his little princess_.

His little _Doll_.

She'd definitely be more successful than her brother; a _deadbeat_. Can't even support two kids - who's mother isn't the same person - she was always minding them, while he _gambled_ away all of the _money_.

_Her_ money. Her _time_ spent trying to get that _money_ so that he could become something, be someone that his children could _look up_ to.

Her father would _laugh_ again; at her childish dreams. Her _nativity_.

Oh, how _naive_ she was. How funny that she thinks she knows everything - anyone - because she's a little _psychiatrist_. Her father'd teach her a lesson; deception, maybe. Or about how she was so stupid; just a _pretty face_.

A dollface. _His_ little _Dollface_.

She wanted - _needed_ - fun, she yearned for a fun life. A fun life doesn't exist, only the same shit _over_ and _over_. She remembered reaching a crossroad; one that everyone studying psychology would meet.

Are you going to be crazy or sane?

She could never decide which side was crazy and which was sane; she couldn't even decide which one she _wanted_.

Her mind pushing one way, life pushing the other. An immovable object and an unstoppable force, a truly _exhilarating_ battle. Like _Batman_ and the _Joker_; she remembered them. Labelled as freaks; she has long since decided that they believe they are on a pedestal. Higher than the rest.

Can you think of any other explanation?

She could think of thirty-two.

She had her uses; her smart moments, when she _really_ thought, when she really _focused_.

_Determination_, that's what _she_ called it. _Obsession_, that's what _he_ called it. _He_ didn't know psychology like _she_ did; _he_ didn't know _her_ like she did. Or so she thought. She never knew herself. _He_ knew it, _he_ lived in it.

The _he_?

Who do _you_ think _he_ is?

She didn't know who, not for a long time. Once she_ did_ find out though... Her life turned upside down. For better or for worse? No; for better **and** for worse. Her _brother_ was the only one who thought of it as for worse, but he was a _deadbeat_. Who cares about a _deadbeat_?

_Not Gotham_.

Gotham cares about clowns, bats, cats, riddles, crocodiles, plants and - above all - _fear_. Gotham would be more than pleased to add in another thing it cares about, it had been the_ same things_ for a while; _boring_.

Something new was needed; something that jokes, bats, cats and plants might be involved in.

Gotham would thank - reward - them because she was so _greatful_; so _happy_.

_She_'d never met a _real harlequin_ before.

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**Good? Bad? Indifferent? Let me know with reviews? Pretty please with cherries on top?**

**Looking back, I _will _probably find _something _that doesn't agree with me, or that I could improve on, so yeah. Thanks again for reading. You should read my other story, if you read this one. Yeah. Thanks. Bye bye!**


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